


John

by kongvalemon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Short Story, first, own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kongvalemon/pseuds/kongvalemon
Summary: Johnny-boy is in for a shock
 
(just something I wrote for class)





	

“John? You alright?”  
Mr. Michaels looked at me from the papers spread on his desk, his brow puckered with concern. The office wasn’t very big, but large enough for the man’s considerable stature. I smiled wanly, my hands clenched around the phone in my pocket. My shirt was sticking to my back. Mr. Michaels was wearing a green tie. It clashed horribly with his pale, large face and shallow eyes. My fingers flexed around the door frame.  
“I’m fine Mr. Michaels, I was just wondering if I might be able to take the rest of the day off?”  
“Oh. Why?”  
“Well, it’s the wife sir, she’s feeling a bit under the weather,” I said.  
His face cleared in understanding. It was a well-known fact around the office that John  
Crawford went home every few days to care for his sick wife. The sympathy it garnered made Mr. Michaels allow it without much of a fuss. Of course, most of them figured it was a ploy to get time off work. Nobody worked here because the wanted to. He was a good man, Mr.  
Michaels. As good as any boss, I suppose.  
The white walls of the office glared down at me as I walked down endless corridors. I had to go home.   
The subway station was nearly empty. In fact, the only other person I could see was an old homeless man sitting slumped against the wall with a paper cup on the ground in front of him. It was pitiful, how they sat there, day after day with their paper cups and their mumbling, asking for our hard-earned money. I sat down on a bench, leaning my back against the white tiles. Other than the two of us the station was empty. The train came roaring into the station. The doors opened before me, but no one stepped out. Looked like we were all heading the same way. Our house was about fifteen minutes from the station if you walked fast. I did.

When I came up to the house, I stood there for a little while, watching for any sign of movement in the windows. It was a beautiful little two story house. We had bought it just after we got married. The porch creaked as I stepped towards the door and the two withered plants stood in the corner. I had bought them two weeks ago for your birthday. You loved flowers. I fished out the keys from my pocket and unlocked the door. I walked into the kitchen. A fly was buzzing, half dead, in the dust on the windowsill. The sun was pouring in from the window lighting up the particles swirling in the air. There was a note on the fridge from two weeks ago.

I called your name but you didn’t answer. I walked up the stairs, to your bedroom. Your phone was lying on the table in the hallway. If I looked at it I knew there would be three missed calls and a few messages. I walked past and knocked on the door. I didn’t get an answer so I gently pushed it open.

The room was dark and stuffy. The window was closed and the air was heavy and stale. There  
was a strange smell in the room, almost cloying, crawling around the dresser and the corner  
and around the drying flowers on the table, next to your bed. The glass of water I had brought  
you in the morning lay on the floor beside your bed. I picked it up. There wasn’t any water on  
the floor. You had drunk it all. The room  
wasn’t big but it took me a moment to find you, almost swallowed by the bed and the  
collection of pillows. I walked over, my feet sinking into the carpet like freshly turned earth.  
You were lying in bed, eyes closed, your hair like a halo on the pillow. I turned and began to  
walk away but I stopped halfway to the door. Something was wrong. I hadn’t noticed at first,  
but the room was quiet. Too quiet. When I got down to the kitchen, I walked over to the  
phone and picked it up.

Later, after they had taken you away, I sat in the kitchen. It was  
nearly dark now and the pink and yellow light sneaked in through the window, lighting up the  
room in careful, sporadic bursts of colour. It was beautiful, painting the walls in the colours of  
the sunset. Soon, the sun would go down and it would be dark outside. The stars might  
show if the sky was clear. I pulled my knees up to my chest and put my arms around them.  
Mr. Michaels had given me time off from work. As much as you need, he’d said. As much as  
you need. I doubted I would be allowed to take the rest of my life off work. There’ll be  
arrangements I suppose. People would come to visit. Give their condolences and such. There  
would be family. Aunts and uncles, cousins, and if I were lucky, maybe even distant third  
cousins twice removed. You had a big family. I had never bothered to learn their names. Now  
they would all come pouring in, a flood of well-meaning people, pretending to grieve. Crying  
into their little white handkerchiefs.  
I put my chin on my knees and looked at the pill bottle on the table. It was about half empty.

The little white pills looked deceptively small, but I knew what they could. An old college  
buddy had studied medicine, and although he didn’t finish his studies he had told me how  
much you needed to take. I doubted he would have told me if he knew what I would do with  
what he told me. We didn’t talk much now. Come to think of it, I didn’t talk much to anyone  
anymore. Ever since I met you, I had been happy with what we had together. Not anymore, though.


End file.
